A delicate drama with no inflated pretensions, The Sessions is a nimble little indie, nothing revolutionary, but ably mounted and possessed of an impressive emotional dexterity. Like many such films, it relies on the strength of its script and the actors entrusted with it, and writer-director Ben Lewin (making his first feature film in 18 years) is vigilant not to allow his direction to get in the way. The cast performs with an insouciant ease, highly expressive and never forced. John Hawkes achieves a commendable distinction between body and mind, always convincing as the victim of polio, severely disabled, reliant on an iron lung, and then cultivating emotional intelligence and intellectual artistry, which seem to conflict with his physical state. Helen Hunt is joyous as his sex surrogate - she characterises every word, every movement of her body, yet not in a studied, affected manner, but with the suggestion of impulse and spontaneity, like she's speaking her lines for real. And in the California sunshine, what a bright, charming film the two leads make The Sessions, and support from William H. Macy and Moon Bloodgood (in She's All That mode... it grates at first, then becomes tolerable and half-way believable) is also very good. The score is slightly heavy-handed - Marco Beltrami isn't so good at this quirky stuff - and the film pushes no envelopes, not even in its sexual frankness. But good intentions are evident in every aspect of the work on show, from concept through to execution.